Tears
by The Queen of Pecans
Summary: “She stops; she can't go on. The tears are falling too hard now, the sobs are uncontrollable, shaking through her like an earthquake. She cries and cries and cries. And he doesn't hear." Rachel-centric. One-sided Rachel/Puck angst. ONE-SHOT. R&R.


**A/N: This just sort of popped into my head today. I wrote it in a much different style than I'm used to writing. I think it turned out okay, but I'm not sure. Hope you guys like it!**

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She can't have him.

It kills her, but she knows it's true. She'll never have him, because he's with _her. _And because of _her_, all she can do is watch from afar. Watch from afar while he sings to _her, _while he plays with _her _hair, while he kisses _her._

It's not fair.

But then, life isn't fair. That's one lesson she learned a long time ago. Life will never be fair, she knows, no matter how hard she works.

She wonders if things would be different; if maybe she hadn't dumped him that first time around, when she'd still had him. If maybe she hadn't been blinded then. Because she had been blinded then, blinded by _lust _for Finn. But she knows now that it's not Finn that she wants.

It's _him_ – it's Puck.

But now, Puck's with Quinn and she can't have him – it's too late. And watching them, she knows, that things wouldn't have been different if she'd dumped him. They would've been together a little longer, maybe, but he would've dumped her eventually, when the truth came out. Dumped her to be with Quinn. And the truth _was_ out now, about him being the father.

She'd thought, at first, with the truth out that things would be better. She could be with Finn – he would no longer be tied to Quinn – and all would be well. And now that the truth is out, she can be with Finn. She knows this because she's already been out with him once, Saturday night – and she was going out with him again on Thursday.

But Finn wasn't _him_, she'd quickly realized.

She watches Puck during Glee that afternoon. He's watching _her, _Quinn, while she giggles with Santana and Britney in the corner, hand resting on her baby bump, and bats her eyelashes at him.

She feels sick.

"Hey," Finn says. He sits next to her. Reluctantly, she turns her head away from Puck and giggling, eyelash-batting Quinn, and towards the lanky, tall boy next to her.

"Hey," she answers. He's ready to be with her now, she can see it in his eyes. But he's late – much too late. Still, she'll take him, because she can't have Puck.

"How was your day?" Finn asks. And she knows that he knows. She can see it in his eyes; he watched her watching Puck watching Quinn_._ But Finn knows that she can't have Puck, and he knows that she'll settle for him. And he's okay with it.

She isn't, but she has to be, because it's all she has left.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, delicately. "Fine," she answers.

Finn doesn't speak again. She goes back to watching Puck. He's still watching _her, _Quinn_. _Her hands clench into tiny little fists where they lay at her sides. She wishes he would watch her that way.

She wishes she was the one carrying his baby.

But she's not. It's _her –_ that's who's carrying his baby. And that's why she can't have him. It's messed up – high school is – she decides. It's so messed up, beyond belief.

Her stomach clenches into a knot as she watches Puck walk over to Quinn_. _She feels her stomach leap into her throat as he kisses _her. _She's going to throw up, she knows it.

"Excuse me," she whispers to Finn before running out of the room, the sight of _them _kissing playing over and over in her head like a broken record.

She reaches the bathroom and opens a stall. Leaning over the toilet, she retches, over and over and over. Nothing left, nothing left.

She sighs and slides against the wall of the stall, resting her head on the cool marble. Her mouth tastes icky and her stomach is empty. In her mind they keep kissing. She leans up and dry heaves over the toilet. So sick. So, so sick.

When she can't stand the smell anymore, she gets up. Rinses her mouth at the sink with mouth wash. Once. Twice. Three times. Then she leaves the bathroom. She debates going back to Glee, but decides not to. They're working on a new piece today, but it doesn't matter because she already knows her part by heart.

It's what she lives for these days.

They won't miss her, she tells herself. And so she heads down the hall and out the front doors. She wanders through the bleachers. The field is empty, a rare occurrence. She heads down onto the field and walks to the middle. She lies down on the grass, directly across the fifty yard line, and stares up at the bright, bright blue sky.

It hurts her eyes.

The tears come then. Small, at first, one trickling down after another, slowly. Then bigger and faster, until, suddenly, they're gushing out. She chokes out a sob. She sees them kissing in her mind again.

She can't have him.

She opens her mouth and before she realizes what's happening, the music is pouring out of her.

_"Turn down the lights, turn down the bed,_

_Turn down these voices inside my head,_

_Lay down with me, tell me no lies,_

_Just hold me close, don't patronize – don't patronize me."_

The tears come even faster – she hadn't thought it possible – and she squeezes her eyes shut. Her voice cracks lightly, but she sings even louder.

_"Cause I can't make you love me, if you don't,_

_You can't make your heart feel, something it won't._

_Here in the dark, these final hours,_

_I will lay down my heart, and I'll feel the power._

_But you won't – no, you won't,_

_Cause I can't make you love, if you don't."_

They're so true, she thinks, the lyrics. He doesn't love her – she can't make him love her. He won't ever love her, not ever. But she'll always love him – always, always, always.

_"I'll close my eyes, then I won't see,_

_The love you don't feel when you're holding me._

_Morning will come, and I'll do what's right,_

_Just give me till then, to give up this fight –"_

She stops; she can't go on. The tears are falling too hard now, the sobs are uncontrollable, shaking through her like an earthquake. She cries and cries and cries. And he doesn't hear.

He'll never hear.

Heartbreak, heartache, all for him. She pulls at the grass, ripping up shreds of it on either side on the fifty yard line. She sits up and tosses it across the field with all her might. Her hair is messed up – something she _never_ allows – but she doesn't care. Her sleeve is covered with snot from when she wiped it across her nose – something she _never_ does – but she doesn't care. Her skirt is fill of grass stains – something she would _never _let happen – but she doesn't care. She doesn't care because all she can see is him. Him not loving her, him _never _loving her.

She lets out another wail and stands up. She can't take it anymore – being here, on the field where he plays. Just being at the school, a hundred, two hundred, yards away from him. She has to leave – has to get out. She runs across the field, her shoes getting ruined by the grass and mud. She runs and runs and reaches the parking lot.

She doesn't drive.

She sees his car. She recognizes it, from when they were dating, from when he used to drive her to school and pick her up everyday. They'd blast the radio and sing loudly and laugh. They'd make out in the back seat. Without realizing what she's doing, she reaches for the handle.

It's unlocked.

She climbs inside and sits down on the worn seat. Cups and wrappers litter the ground, just like she remembers. The blanket she used to use when it was cold in the mornings still sits in the back. She reaches her hand back and pulls the blanket into the front. She lifts it up to her nose and inhales – it smells like him. Everything in the car smells likes him.

She wants to cry all over again.

Instead, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her sheet of stars. She peels off a gold one and glances frantically around. Then she kneels down and sticks it underneath the seat – where it will stay, she hopes, for years to come. So that he has a part of her with him – just as she'll always have a part of him with her, a longing for him.

With a last glance around the familiar car, she gets out, shutting the door quietly behind her. She runs a hand through her messy hair and starts on her walk home.

It's going to be a long life, she thinks.


End file.
